


Riot Act

by fictive_frolic



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Multi, Pining, Smut, age gap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24663781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictive_frolic/pseuds/fictive_frolic
Summary: Why'd Clint have to go and kiss you like that? You were so close to letting your little crush just wither and die.
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Thor, Clint Barton/Reader, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

“Why’d you kiss me like that?”

The quiet question makes Clint’s head jerk up and he looks towards the door towards you. You look like you’ve been through it. A long slow drag over broken glass straight into a vat of salt. And he feels guilty. Pale and drawn. Lips chapped and bitten. Bruises. Cuts. It’d been a bad mission. It had started bad and only gotten worse. 

“Like what?” 

Clint looked away from you. Trying not to run to scoop you up. To cuddle you and kiss you a few dozen more times. To beg you to give him a chance. But he can’t. He can’t bring himself to look at you, such was his guilt. He shouldn’t have kissed you at all. Not for the mission. And certainly never because he wanted you. You were off limits. You had to be. And so he had to play it cool.

“Like that”  
He could HEAR the italics dripping from your lips. The emphasis. The confusion masquerading as anger. You don’t like change. And you like boundaries. Hard set lines with no shades of gray. And the way he kissed you... Well. You weren’t stupid. You knew that that wasn’t a “For the Mission” Kiss. He was pretty sure you hadn’t ever been that green. And you knew, probably better than anyone the danger of subtext. 

“I had to make it look good,” Clint said, willing himself not to blush. “If those assholes would have found out the truth, they would have killed you.” And he had made it look good. He could still feel the pressure of your lips on his. The way you went boneless and pliant in his arms. The little kitten sound of surprise when his tongue slid into your mouth. The taste of blood, salt and copper, from where someone had hit you on the jaw. Hell. It was your reaction to him that had sold it. 

Clint can’t look back at you. He can’t. Because the hurt he can feel radiating off of you makes his chest ache. He’d crossed a line. And he knew it. But worse than that, he crossed a line and lied to you. 

Something he promised he’d never do.

____________

You leave the training room, turning away from the armory where Clint stood surveying his practice Arrows. You hated that you felt like he didn’t want to talk to you. You hated that you felt like he was treating you like a stupid kid. 

You’d had those stupid HYDRA goons ready to go on half a dozen wild goose chases. Things were rocky but. You were handling it. Even Nat said you were handling it. From the chair where they had you tied. Bleeding and in pain. There’d even been a note of approval in her voice. It was nice. 

So why’d that dummy go and kiss you like that?

He didn’t have to convince them of your cover anymore. Because the cover didn’t matter. He didn’t need to be a businessman and you weren’t his cheating wife that was sleeping with Steve Rogers. He didn’t need to pretend to be happy to find you. 

And that- He didn’t feel like he was pretending. It felt like something else. And you didn’t like that. 

Clint was your mentor. He recruited you out of a bad situation. He’d looked at your worst day and instead of killing you, like he probably should have, he’d said “Hey. Want a real job?” And you’d taken the hand up and run with it. You’d been in the tower ever since.

And never once had he even seemed to notice. 

That your heart sped up when he smiled at you. That stupid, cocky smile. The one that made his eyes dance and his dimples appear. 

That sometimes you spaced out in meetings because you were wondering about the implications of his time in the circus... If he retained any of his flexibility and if that would matter in the bedroom. 

He hadn’t noticed and you were grateful. Because Clinton Francis Barton was too good for the likes of you. 

So why’d he go and kiss you like that?

The Dummy.


	2. Chapter 2

“Bruce?”

Before the scientist can react, there are gentle hands on his face and a cool cloth against his forehead. “Can you hear me?”

It takes a second, as the Hulks roars echo in his head and the memories of the destruction and the chaos on the ground settle into place.

“I’m okay,” he said softly, but pressing into the cloth anyway.

Clint watched the little scene from his seat on the quinjet and swallowed hard. He knew he shouldn’t be jealous of Bruce. The careful way you get him sitting up and ply him with something to drink. And he knows that the soft smile and the appreciative glances from Bruce aren’t remotely romantic. 

For Bruce, you’re like a beloved little sister. He’s fiercely devoted, but if you were naked in front of him right now, he’d just throw you a blanket. 

Thor keeps his distance off to the side, quietly fussing, handing you things when you ask for them and Clint sighs. Not even Bruce is sure why the Hulk responds so well to you and Natasha, but the jealousy in his chest is killing him.

You haven’t even looked at him for days. Not since his lame excuse that he’d kissed you for the mission. To keep the cover in place. And watching you take care of Bruce, touching him gently and murmuring little soothing nonsense, is making him angry. He frowns and stalks up to the cockpit, shutting the door to block it out as he throws himself into a chair. 

“Problem?” Steve asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Clint said folding his arms across his chest. 

Steve rolled his eyes, “Barton-”

“Even if there was a problem I don’t want to talk about it,” Clint said. 

“Banner doesn’t even like her,” Steve said.

“I know that!” Clint snapped.

“If you know that why are you acting like Bruce is moving in on your territory?”

“I’m not!”

He glares out the window and swallows hard, “Because I want her to look at me like that.” Things he thinks but doesn’t say. Because you’re too young for him. Because he probably loves you, he just isn’t sure he wants to admit it. And because you’re injured and tired, and he wants to take care of you too, 

“Sure you’re not,” Steve said. “And you kissed her for the mission.”

“I did,” he protested weakly. 

Steve sighed, “Barton, stop lying. She deserves better. And so do you.”

“Does everyone know?” Clint asked.

“Everyone but Y/N,” Steve said frowning, “She believes it was for the mission. And she thinks you’re mad at her.”

___________

Thor looks at the door Clint walked through and frowned. The man was angry. More than that he’d been worried. And jealous. But when he tried to catch Bruce’s eye, the Brunette glanced towards you and gave you a meaningful look.

“No, what?” Thor mouthed.

Bruce narrowed his eyes and gave you another meaningful glance. 

“I should go,” you say out loud, not missing the stares to meaning conversation over your head. 

“Go where?” Bruce asked. 

“Somewhere,” you say kissing his cheek, “You two clearly have something to talk about, about me... So.”

“Just about how beautiful you are,” Thor said, capturing one of your hands and kissing it fondly, chuckling when you roll your eyes.

“Sure,” you snort, going to check on medical supplies. It’s awkward, having people talk around you. 

Bruce waited until your footsteps had faded a little and sighed, resting his head on Thor’s shoulder. “So,” Thor said, putting an arm around Bruce’s shoulder and crossing his feet getting comfortable. 

“Clint kissed her,” Bruce said quietly, checking over his shoulder to make sure that you were out of earshot.

“Finally!”

“Shh,” Bruce said quickly, putting a hand over Thor’s mouth. 

“Was it not mutual?” Thor asked confused.

“I mean-” Bruce stopped and sighed, “The mission went bad. Really bad. She was hurt. Half conscious.”

Thor nodded, “I had heard that she was injured, then why-”

“Why else?” Bruce chuckled, “He was so relieved she opened her eyes I don’t think he could help it.”

Thor shook his head and glanced back towards where you’d gone. “She’s an especially tempting creature,” he snorted.

“Hey,” Bruce pouted, smacking him in the chest lightly. 

“Though not as tempting as my present company,” he said contritely, giving Bruce a kiss and a crooked smile. 

Bruce crinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes, trying not to smile. Thor was hard to resist, even at his most irritating. 

“So he kissed her but why-”

“He told her it was for the mission,” Bruce said frowning.

“Fuck me,” Thor groaned, “So-”

“So he broke her heart a little but now if any other man even so much as looks at her he gets pissy.”

“Odin’s beard, what’s stopping him?”

“Nat says he thinks he’s too old for her,” Bruce answered

Thor sighed and shook his head, “That poor girl.”

“I know. I really don’t want to have to hurt him. But if he doesn’t get his shit together I will.”

“So fierce,” Thor teased, kissing his jaw, “Over protective big brother.”

“Someone has to be,” Bruce huffed, laughing a little as his cheeks colored.

“Well. I’ll join you in that quest... I can’t abide stealing kisses from innocents and then lying to them. Hel’s Teeth, I can understand being a rake. But not an utter bastard.”

“Rake?” Bruce asked raising an eyebrow.

“Is that not common usage anymore?” Thor asked. 

“Neither is cad, varlet, blackguard, or villain,” Bruce said fondly, “I believe what Y/N would use instead of rake is Fuckboy.”

Thor nodded, digesting that. “Fuckboy,” he said ponderously. “That has a certain ring to it.”

“Though I might not use it in mixed company,” Bruce said. 

Thor nodded, “Yes that might be wise.”

__________

You tried to focus on the rolls of bandages and the other sundry supplies, carefully marking what you had used for Bruce on the resupply list. 

But the sound of the two men upfront whispering was distracting even if you couldn’t hear the words. You knew it was about you. And Clint.

Fucking Clint.

Why’d he have to go and kiss you like that?

Why’d he have to go and kiss you at all. Or if he was going to do it, why couldn’t he do it when you were more awake. And you could really enjoy it. So it didn’t feel like a half remembered fever dream. 

And why’d everyone have to know about it? Why couldn’t you just let this stupid crush run its course and suppress your feelings until they withered and died?

Of course Clint didn’t want you like that. You were a disaster.


	3. Chapter 3

When Clint stalked off the quinjet, looking furious, Natasha winced. “Clint,” she said softly.

“Don’t,” he said gruffly, pulling away as he jerked his hand out of hers. 

And she cringed harder when you slunk off after everyone else, doing your level best not to draw attention. Or take up room. “Clint,” she hissed again, jerking her head in your direction.

She doesn’t miss that he looks ashamed of himself. And she also doesn’t miss the flash of jealousy on his face when Steve threw an arm around your shoulder. Natasha knew it was just a big brother kind of embrace. Meant to comfort. Steve didn’t like it when people on his team were down. 

He particularly didn’t like when you were down. 

And she knew Clint knew it too. Steve threw an arm around your shoulder bracingly. The way Clint had done dozens of times before. In the early days, BEFORE he caught feelings. “Talk to her,” Nat pleaded.

“Stay out of it, Nat,” he said, voice still gruff.

“Clint!” she called.

But the archer was already gone. Away, more than likely to get a shower and something to eat. She sighed and turned back to talk to you, but you were already gone. You’d slipped away from Steve, begging off from whatever he’d tried to get you to do. 

Steve shook his head and sighed, “This is a mess,” he said quietly. 

Nat nodded, “Clint has feelings but won’t admit it and Y/N has feelings but is heart broken so now she’s just decided to ignore them until they go away.”

Steve cringed, “That never works.”

“What other choice does she have?” Nat asked smiling a little, “She’d been nursing a harmless little crush forever. Then that dummy had to go and kiss her and declare that he loves her all gallant and dramatic... Then he went and told her it was to keep a cover.”

“Dummy,” Steve scoffed, “Honestly.”

“Who’s a Dummy?” Bucky asked, shoving Sam cheerfully when he answered “You.”

“Clint,” Nat sighed. 

“Still?” Sam asked, surprised. 

“It’s getting worse, really,” Steve sighed, “He kept snapping at her today.”

“For what?” Bucky asked, frowning. Nat patted his arm. Bucky liked you. He thought you were funny. And somewhere, in the back of his mind, your big eyes and boundless energy and enthusiasm reminded him of his little sister. 

“Whatever he decided to be irritated about,” Thor frowned, joining the tangle with his arm around Bruce’s shoulder. 

“This has gotta Stop, man,” Sam said shaking his head, “It’s starting to feel like I’m living in a CW show.”

“A what?” Steve asked, confused. 

“A Shitty teen Drama,” Bucky supplied handily.

“Oh,” Steve said, still not really understanding. 

Natasha turned and looked at Bucky in askance and he grinned, “Y/N showed me some of them. They’re easy to put on as background noise when you’re cleaning guns.”

“The Winter Soldier watches fucking Gossip Girl?” Sam gasped, “Oh my god.”

“No,” Bucky snorted, “But Riverdale is pretty great.”

“Jesus,” Bruce chuckled, “Clearly the girl has to be stopped.”

Bucky smiled unrepenant and Nat rolled her eyes, “Boys, focus,” she said, “Our love birds remember?”

The smile faded from Bucky’s face and Sam stopped punching playfully at him. “Right,” the Brunette said, “What are we going to do?”

“Well. First things first,” Nat said glancing towards the door you’d slunk through, tail between your legs, “Someone needs to go check on Y/N.”

“I’ll go-” Thor started, eager to help.

“Sit down, Thunder Dork,” Bucky said, frowning, “I’ll go.”


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky’s knock on your door was perfuntory at best. And you were less than surprised when he let himself in, scowling and looking irritated. 

“Someone being mean to you on the internet again?” you ask, glancing up at him in the mirror where you’re washing your face.

“What are you doing?” Bucky countered, folding his arms. 

“Getting ready for bed,” you say, gesturing at your pajamas. 

His frown deepened and he stepped closer, “Any particular reason?” he asked. 

“None that are anyone else’s business.”

“Y/N-”

“No, Bucky,” You break in, “I don’t want to talk about it. I really don’t. I just want to call today a mulligan and try again tomorrow.”

“You can’t-”

“Can’t what, Bucky? Ignore my feelings? Get Clint to like me back? Get my life together?” You look back up at him in the mirror looking mildly furious. 

Bucky felt himself soften a little. He could sympathize with how angry you were at him. Because you didn’t ask for any of this. The job or the feelings. And you like the job well enough but only a hand full of people knew how hard it was for you to deal with feelings. 

He could relate to that. 

He’d been in love with his best friend once. And he’d been terrified that admitting he had those feelings was going to change everything. And tear them apart. It was only 70 years later, after everything was torn apart anyway, that he realized just how stupid that was. Even if it turned out that they made better friends than they ever would lovers. At least they’d finally tried it. 

“Sweetheart, it’s okay,” he said finally. 

“I’m not you,” you tell him simply. “Clint isn’t Steve. And he can do a lot better than me anyway.”

Bucky cringes. He gets that too. The self loathing. The need to cut yourself down because after so long being told that you’re nothing. A body. A tool. Inhuman. A monster. You start to believe it. And even after they deprogram you. Even after you sleep in a bed and eat whatever you want. Wear what you want. Do WHATEVER you want. Say no to a direct order. You still feel like nothing. Less than nothing. Because how could anyone love you with all the blood on your hands? When the weight of all your ghosts threatens to drag you to the ground if you think about it too hard. The guilt for every trigger you pulled keeps eating you up inside. And you wish- You wish you really were a monster. A bigger badder monster so you could stop caring.... Which only convinces you that you ARE a bigger monster than you thought. 

“You’re right,” Bucky said, “He’s not Steve. But you love him.”

He watches your cheeks heat and smiles a little. You’d make a cute couple. Well meaning idiots that share one brain. He could see you being happy. You’d suit really well. 

“You love him so much it’s terrifying, and sweetheart that’s not going to go away.”

“It has to,” you reply looking away. “I can’t drag anyone else into my life.”

“Except he’s already there,” Bucky pointed out.

“But at least-” You cut yourself off. Jaws shutting with a loud clack and Bucky cocks his head.

“At least what?”

“At least this way, if he walks away from me- maybe it won’t hurt as much.”

“It hurts now,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” you admit, “But not any worse than it did before.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, “When did we start lying to each other?”

“Bucky,” you sigh, looking up at him apologetically, “i just want to go to sleep.”

He nods, deciding to let the matter drop and exhaling slowly, “Alright,” he said quietly, “But for the record? No one’s ever gonna do better than you. You’re one of a kind, doll.” And he leaves before you can argue with him.


	5. Chapter 5

Parties are hell on earth of Clint Barton. Everything is loud and it’s hard to focus, even if he can read lips, communication is difficult. And it makes him grumpy.

It’s making him grumpier still to watch you glitter under the lights. Flirting with a little cadre of agents that look like they’re hanging on your every word.

Younger agents.

Closer you your age.

That look like they sleep. 

And smell like cologne and not coffee. 

He hates the way they touch you. Brushing your arm, grabbing your hand to pull you back into a seat and darting to get you another drink. They want to impress you. They want to fuck you. And Clint, for the life of him, can’t really tell how interested you really are. 

You’re keeping your hand in. Playing it close to the chest. Flirting. Teasing. But not really giving anything away. Toying with them like a cat with a few mice. Batting them about and making them think they have a chance.

And even if he hates it, he can’t help but smile a little. You’re good. Really good. And he’d love to go over there and show those boys how it’s done. Make them green with envy when he makes you melt into his arms. Then your fingers curl around the short hair at the nape of his neck. Battling him for control. The kind of kiss that pled with him for just a little more. Because he knows you. About the spot on your side that’s ticklish. That you only take sugar in your coffee on Sunday. That you love cherry pie with a scoop of ice cream. That the way to your heart is a pack of G2 pens with a very fine point or a bag of sour skittles. That you hate it when guys try to one up each other, like those chucklefucks are doing now. 

But... He can’t. Because he knows. He knows if he goes and does those things and shows up those young men, nothing and no one is going to keep him from making a fool off himself. Falling all over you. And then it’ll be “Poor Hawkeye,” they whisper, “She’s never gonna go for that. What’s he playing at?” Or worse still, Whispering that every assignment, promotion, commendation, or piece of recognition you’ve ever been given is because, Surprise, you’ve been letting old man Barton fuck you. And he didn’t want that either. Not when you worked so hard to get where you were. And worked so hard to be that good at your job. You didn’t deserve that. 

Still. He wants too. And as one of them coaxes you into laying on the bar so he can do a shot off of you, Clint, even over the din can hear his teeth grinding.

_________

Steve looks away from the little scene at the bar, cheeks turning red. “Jesus,” he hissed.

Sam shrugged and took a drink of his beer, “She’s a big girl, Grandpa.”

“I know but-”

Bucky quickly stepped on his foot and Jerked his head to where Clint was watching goings on, looking more than slightly furious. You couldn’t see him, Bucky knew. Not from where you were in relation to the room. But still, as Clint whirled away and stomped over to where they were sitting, Steve shut his mouth with a snap.

“ ‘Sup?” Bucky asked, handing him a beer and stretching lazily. 

“Shit’s getting out of hand,” He said nodding to where someone else was now doing a body shot and had apparently found a ticklish spot on your belly. 

“No more than normal,” Sam allowed, “And it’s only like three meat heads.”

Clint’s eyes narrowed and he took a drink of his beer. He really hated watching them touch you. And it was obvious. Very obvious, to the other men. 

“If you don’t like it,” Steve said, “Go over there and do something about it.” He quirked an eyebrow in challenge and took a drink of his own drink.

“Don’t let Maria hear you say that,” Sam chuckled, “She’ll make us all go through sensitivity training... Again.”

Steve rolled his eyes and sighed, “Fuck that,” he said, “Sometimes you just gotta go get what you want.”

“Definitely sensitivity training,” Sam muttered.

“Still not a bad idea,” Bucky allowed, smirking. Especially not if she’s willing, he says to himself, careful not to spill your secret. He wasn’t sure if Clint knew you were in love with him. And it wasn’t his job to tell him.

Clint scowled at all of them, “I’m not drunk enough for this.” And as he turned away from the bar, he didn’t see Sam and Bucky trade looks behind his back. And so he didn’t see the beginning of the end. The start of a terrible, awful idea.


	6. Chapter 6

Alcohol made his blood sing. His head was swimming and he didn’t care how loud the party was. Or that this bartender was less than competent. Because his routine, encouraged by Bucky and Sam, wasn’t complicated. Beer. Shot. Rinse and Repeat.

And for right now, It didn’t matter that he lost sight of you. All he wanted to do was drink. Drink until he stopped wondering what it felt like to have you pinned under him on the bed, your body pliant and soft. Wanting him.

It does matter though that he can’t hear you. The giggling and flirting that he’d honed in on was now silent. 

“Where’s Y/N?” he said, taking a shot and turning to look at Bucky.

“What am I?” he scoffed, “Her keeper?” Bucky laughed when Clint scowled at him. 

“Ooo,” Sam laughed, “Someone’s grumpy.”

“I don’t like the way they were looking at her,” he said to Bucky, still scowling, taking a sip of his beer. Even drunk, Bucky could see how he aware he was. He knew where you were and when you weren’t in his orbit. 

“She’s outside,” Bucky said, “Stepped out with the least irritating one... I think his name is Rick.”

“Rick’s a douche bag,” Clint said. 

“Well yeah,” Bucky said. He doesn’t mention that Rick is also blonde. And blue eyed. And in a certain light. Or no light. He looked like Clint. So in whatever dark corner you’d let yourself be talked into, you were probably reasonably content. As long as he wasn’t talking. 

“You gonna go do something about it?” Sam asked, smirking. 

“No,” Clint groused, “Not gonna have people saying she slept her way to the top.”

Bucky cringed and looked up at Sam. It was an implication they hadn’t considered. They knew you. They knew that you worked hard. That you were brave and selfless. That you were a good leader. That you deserved everything you worked for. But SHIELD was a big organization. And not everyone knew you personally. But they had seen your file. And all it would take was one badly timed rumor to ruin your reputation. They hadn’t realized that Clint was doing it partly to protect you. That he loved you enough to be willing to be miserable for you. 

“Clint,” Bucky started. But, Clint cut him off with a shake of his head and an impatient gesture. 

“Look,” he sighed, “Can we all just pretend-” 

But they there was no pretending... Not about anything. You walked back into to the party. Lips kiss swollen but looking like you were about to cry. He didn’t see you right away, but he heard you. Kind of, over the din. Your reply to Thor when the giant space Labrador grabbed your arm gently to try and learn what had happened. 

“Its fine,” you protest as Clint looks up to see you forcing a smile, clearly trying to beg off.

And with no warning, a thousand little protective instincts roar to life in his head. His blood alcohol level impeding his ability to think critically. To understand that you’re upset because you weren’t kissing him and not because Rick had actually done anything wrong. You are just also drunk. Very drunk and moping because no matter how drunk you get nothing gets rid of the ache of not being wanted. 

“Shit,” Bucky mutters, half getting up to stop Clint when he was off his stool faster than either Sam nor Bucky had thought possible. 

“No, No,” Sam scolded, “let this play out. It’s been a while since we’ve seen some good drama.”

Bucky snorts, watching Clint head towards you, looking fit to be tied, and lets Sam shove him gently back onto a stool before raising his beer in a mock toast. “God Speed, man,” he said, “Just please. Use a fucking Condom.”

“Right?” Sam said, laughing as Clint took your arm and lead you out a side door to a staircase.

“Cute babies. Bad timing,” Bucky said nodding. 

“Indeed,” Thor rumbled, taking the beer Sam handed him, “He won’t hurt her, will he?”

“Nah,” Bucky said laughing, “that dress is another story though... that fabric looks a little flimsy to be manhandled like that.”


	7. Chapter 7

“What are we doing out here, Clint?” you ask, folding your arms against your chest. Not sure if you mean to protect yourself or keep warm. Maybe a bit of both. 

“Need to talk to you,” he huffed.

“You’re drunk, Hawk.” you say quietly.

“So’re you,” he retorted, stepping closer.

“Not that drunk,” you tell him, backing up. 

“No?”

“No,” you tell him, shaking your head. But you still can’t bring your eyes up to meet his. You really don’t want to look at him. Not while he’s looking at you like this. Like he’s jealous.

“Then what were you doing with Rick?” he asks, smirking. Like he caught you at something. 

You shrug and take a deep breath. You don’t tell him that you wanted Rick because you wanted to pretend he was someone else. That he was the man standing in front of you. He smells like whiskey and cinnamon. Aftershave. It’s a smell you know well. You’d fallen asleep on his shoulder on the way home so many times, it might be the most soothing smell in the world. It smells like home and it’s making your head swim. And your eyes water. 

“Did he hurt you?” Clint asked, frowning. 

“No,” you yelp, your voice cracking, “I just-”

“He hurt you,” Clint said, stepping closer to you carefully, “I’m gonna-”

“Stoppit!”

Clint stops, head swiveling back towards you, “What-”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” you tell him, “I just wanna go to bed.”

“Kid,” he tried. Watching tears shine in your lights, as you stand there blinking them back and trying to hold yourself together makes him feel like he’s being stabbed in the guts. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, “Please.” You can’t take the ‘Let’s be friends’ speech. Not from Clint. You’d rather throw yourself off the roof. Or get a root canal every day. And you don’t think you can watch him settle down with anyone else. 

Clint doesn’t know what to say. He knows you’re a light weight. And he knows that you’re trying, desperately to try and play it cool. And he can see this tearing you apart. He’s watched you go through break ups. And bad dates. He’s watched you cry over losers for years. And now here you are, crying again. Crying over him. 

You turn away from him taking a deep breath. You have to get out of here. You have to get away from him. Before you have time to beg. To say things to him that no self respecting grown woman should say. You have to walk away from him while you still have a scrap of dignity left. And so you do.

You mean to start down the steps and get off the roof. But a familiar calloused hand closes gently around your wrist and you can’t go. You can’t move. You’re rooted to the spot like he fired a putty arrow at your feet. “Don’t go,” he murmured, “Stay with me?”

“Clint,” you breathe, “Please.”

“No,” he pleaded, “Just listen, okay? I’m sorry.”

You still. And you haven’t punched him in the face. So he keeps talking,

“I shouldn’t have lied to you,” he said softly.

“Lied to me?” you ask, wiping away frustrated tears on the back of your hand.

“Yeah,” he said, cringing, “I didn’t kiss you for the mission.”

You half turn and look at him, “Then why-”

“Because I love you, okay?” he said, letting go of your wrist. “I’ve been in love with you since we got arrested in Utah. Fuck. I probably loved you before then. I was just to stupid to realize it.”

“Clint-”

“I’m sorry. I lied to you. I lied and now you’re crying and I just... please don’t-”

But Clint doesn’t get the chance to finish that sentence. He has to wrap an arm around you to keep you from falling over. And he can’t stop you from pressing your lips against his. Hungry and searching. Pleading. “Please don’t be lying to me now,” you’re telling him. “Please let this be real.”

And he has no choice but to surrender. He can’t watch you cry over him. He can’t live with himself knowing that you’re crying over him in the dark in your room. All he can do is beg you to forgive him. And as he wraps his arms around you and gently takes control of things, all he can do is kiss you. Hauling you gently onto the nearest table and groaning as you wrap your legs around his waist. Clinging to him for more. More he was more than willing to give you.

There were no words. No sound but soft moans and panting. Clint can feel himself getting dizzy. Drunk all over again on the taste of tequila clinging to your lips. But as he slides his hand up your thighs, searching for your panties, he pauses. Asking permission. 

“Don’t stop,” you plead, “Please.”

And Clint doesn’t need any more encouragement, unwrapping you from him just long enough to slide them off, chuckling as he slides a finger against your folds, reveling in what you feel like, “Good girl,” he praises, kissing along your neck. 

“Clint,” you pant, arching into him, reaching for his belt.

“I know, kid,” he chuckles, “trust me?”

You nod and he pulls a condom clumsily from his wallet, letting it fall to the floor. And you hardly notice him putting it on as he claims your lips in another kiss that makes your head spin. What you do notice is the feel of him against your entrance, waiting for permission. “Yes,” you pant, “Please?”

“So polite,” he teases, pushing into you with a moan. Burying his face in your shoulder as legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. And for a while, where is no sound. Nothing but animal growls and needy whimpers as he fucks into you. Chasing the bliss he’s been dreaming of in this moment between your thighs. He kisses you quiet quickly when you cry out and fucks you harder, seeking his own release. Thankful to be kissing you when he comes with a growl. “Fuck,’ he panted. “Fuck, Kid. Yes.”

“Clint-” you whine, hiding your face in his shoulder. 

“Shh,” he soothes, gentling you. “I’m here, kid. I’m here.”

And when you start crying all over again he isn’t sure why. Or what to do about it.


End file.
